


An Indecisive Submissive

by AmbassadorInara



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Dominant character, Established Relationship, Healthy Relationships, Kinky, Light BDSM, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, POV First Person, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, Sexual Fantasy, Shibari, Submissive Character, Trust, everyone has a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 23:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21024074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbassadorInara/pseuds/AmbassadorInara
Summary: The ropes hold me still. I snarl frustrated curses at you, disappointed that my hopes had been dashed so thoroughly, and embarrassed by how quickly I had lost control. You play me like a virtuoso, and my shaky voice betrays how much I love it.A story about the endless possibilities that open up when you tie someone to a chair.





	An Indecisive Submissive

**Author's Note:**

> Very little is said about the characters here, so feel free to fill in your favorites. The submissive narrator has a vulva and breasts, and their dominant partner may have a penis or a strap-on at one point.

It starts, perhaps, in the bedroom, or the living room if you like, maybe the kitchen if we’re feeling impatient. You undress me, taking your time, dragging your fingers across each section of newly-exposed skin. Maybe you whisper in my ear and stroke my hair, telling me how much you enjoy taking me apart piece by piece. Or maybe instead you ask me to undress for you as you watch carefully, leaning back in your chair and sipping red wine. You revel in being able to look unabashedly, greedily, possessively. However it happens, you end up content and relaxed and I end up fully nude.

You maneuver me into a chair, the sort of sturdy cushioned chair that we don’t actually own right now but maybe we’ll get one day. You might tell me to sit in your low, commanding voice. Or you might push me down roughly, drawing a sharp gasp. Maybe you’re in the mood for guiding me with gentle, tender touches. Once I’m seated, you disappear behind me for a moment, and I shiver with anticipation. I know the broad strokes of what will happen tonight, but _how_ and _when_ and _where_ are totally up to you. I’m curious to see how it plays out. When you reappear, you’re carrying bundles of black rope. You carefully place them on the floor nearby, beginning to unravel one. 

You take my right arm somehow: gently, roughly, with a command or a gesture or a tug, and prod at the muscles. You begin at the fingers and work your way up, banishing all tension from my limb. Then comes the soft jute rope, winding up my arm in an intricate pattern. It’s tight, but the pressure is diffuse and comfortable. You leave my elbow free, so my movement is not restricted - yet.

You repeat the process on the other arm, carefully wrapping it up. The ropes from each arm meet and knot at my chest, but you’re not distracted by my breasts. Your only focus is the task at hand. Or maybe you fondle them gently, adoringly, leaving me feeling loved and secure. Or what if you teased my nipples, making me squirm underneath the ropes?

You wind the ropes around the back of the chair, pinning me in place, but you’re careful to keep a hand on my skin when you’re out of sight, and I’m grateful for the reassuring touch. The precise loops and knots thread through my elbows and pull my arms back as you continue to secure me to the chair with crisscrossing black lines. I relax into the rhythm of your work, closing my eyes and letting my thoughts drift. By the time I come back to myself, you’ve completed a plait between my breasts and have secured my wrists between hips and armrests. You tug firmly to tie off a knot.

I’m a little dazed, but I realize that I’m starting to get tingles in my right hand. “Yellow” I say softly, and you immediately stop. “Right wrist is too tight.” I gesture ineffectively with my head. You nod and say “thank you,” before releasing and retying the knot you had just completed. 

“How’s that?” you ask. 

“Much better.” 

“Color?” 

“Green. Very green.” I reply with a smile. You tousle my hair affectionately as you stand up to fetch more rope. 

This time you sit in front of me, massaging out each leg before wrapping it up. You might maintain the same tone as before, or maybe you mix it up, surprising me with rough possessiveness where before there was tender generosity, or maybe seductive whispers replacing firm commands.

You don’t tie me to the chair legs, which which is confusing until you bend my leg at the knee, propping a heel on the corner of seat. Ordinarily this position would cause me to slide forward, but ordinarily I’m not tied firmly to the back of the chair. You slowly work your way up each thigh, and what I can see of the lattice knots on my skin is beautiful. I can only imagine what your view is like, with my legs spread so openly. 

You finish off this length of rope securing my legs to my belly and my belly to the chair. You take a few steps back to admire your handiwork, and I can feel your gaze on my skin. I try to wiggle a bit, testing the restraints. 

“Too tight?” you ask kindly. 

“It’s perfect.” I reply. There’s no slack at all - I’m completely immobilized from the neck down - but the ropes have no bite to them. It’s like a cocoon, if moths played sex games.

You take your time, admiring your work from all angles, fingers drawing gasps from me as they touch in unexpected places. I’m completely at your mercy. You could fuck me senseless, or tease me for hours, or simply leave me helpless. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, yet you make it also safe and comfortable. 

“Lovely,” you say happily, and that’s all it takes for my exposed vagina to gape and fresh wetness to appear. 

You settle in to play with me, your newly wrapped toy. Maybe you offer me a drink of your wine, holding it to my lips and tipping it gently into my mouth. Maybe you lap at my nipples, stiffening them with arousal and chill. Maybe you place a vibrator on my clit, set low enough to build tension without relief. Whatever you choose to do, it’s because you want it. Because it pleases you. Because _I_ please you.

My body completely immobile and at your mercy, I have few choices available to me. And even then, I want to give them to you. If you ask me to stay quiet, I will, until pleasure leaks out in hisses and gasps. If you want to hear what I’m feeling, I will give you vivid descriptions with large words and terrible metaphors. Ask me questions, and I will answer honestly. Direct me, and I will obey. Give me permission, and I will dissolve into hazy bliss. 

You could gag me, if you like, and take away those few remaining choices. We have a ball gag in a drawer, now. You could pull it out and fit it into my mouth, and I literally could not stop you. But I know you won’t. We talked about this, and decided I should always be able to say if things got to be too much. Even when you tell me to be silent, my colors are always allowed, always welcomed and praised. There are shears in that drawer, too, and I know with a single word these expensive ropes would be sliced open and I would be free in moments. 

But the funny thing is, I’m already free. I’m free to let go, to not worry if I’m doing things right, if I’m too much or not enough. Free to stop thinking and just be. To relax into the restraints, into your touch. You’re rubbing my clit now, with your fingers or your tongue or maybe a toy. I don’t know if you’re just teasing me or if you’ll bring me to orgasm, but it doesn’t really matter. What could I do about it, even if I knew? 

Maybe you tell me that you want to bring me to the edge and hear me beg for release. That if ask nicely enough, you might be convinced to let me come. You savor my desperation, the needing, the agonizing frustration. You love to hear me come undone.

Or maybe you have a plan for me tonight and no amount of pleading will alter it. You enjoy telling me no, but tonight it’s unnecessary. Unable to move, I’m completely at your mercy. I don’t need permission, but I do need _you_.

I don't feel quite ready to beg just yet, but my vagina strongly disagrees. It’s pulsing now, dripping and wanton and empty. My legs are trembling and toes are curling wildly, and for a moment I think you’re going to give me my first (of many, hopefully) orgasm of the night. But right before I tumble over the edge, you pull away from my clit, lightly covering my entire vulva with your hand. I try to buck my hips up into it, seeking warmth and friction, but the ropes hold me still. I snarl frustrated curses at you, disappointed that my hopes had been dashed so thoroughly, and embarrassed by how quickly I had lost control. You play me like a virtuoso, and my shaky voice betrays how much I love it.

You murmur into my ear. Perhaps they are encouraging words, assuring me that I can withstand your torments, promising me that the end will be worth it. Or maybe you’re feeling more cruel tonight, mocking me for greediness while you stoke the fires of my arousal. It might be a simple “I love you,” or explicit, filthy details of exactly how you plan to ruin me.

Whatever you say, my body reacts to your words spectacularly. My skin is flushed and I’m ruining the upholstery, and yet still you keep teasing me mercilessly. The pleasure floods my brain and the the rest of the world dissolves, until the only things that exist are the points of contact between us. My body has always been yours - you don’t need to tie me up for that. But in this moment, my mind is, too. 

You play freely, using your mouth or hands or toys on every body part you can reach. You mix sensations like cocktails: combining the bite of nipple clamps with the dull fullness of penetration, or maybe a buzzy toy on my clit along with gentle caresses. Each time you bring me closer and closer to the edge, and each time you stop me short. 

If you feel like it, you might let me come eventually. You might hold my hand and guide me through it, whispering praise in my ears. Or you might thrust into me, taking your pleasure and pounding your hips into my clit until I’m spasming around you. Or maybe you mix in a bit of pain - just enough to keep things interesting, to blur the lines between sensations and stack them in intensity. 

Or you might prefer to keep me desperate and wanting. Maybe you promise I’ll come tomorrow, or after I complete some task. Maybe you haven’t decided yet, or want to keep it a surprise. You draw me out, prolonging this experience of desperation, that hollow feeling of needing release and being cruelly denied. You love how my orgasms belong to you long after the ropes are untied, how the thrill of power remains in the following days.

If you’re feeling particularly generous, you might give me more than one orgasm, bringing me to release again and again, riding each wave with me into each crash of pleasure. And if you’re feeling particularly wicked, you might keep going even after my body is overstimulated and oversensitive - forcing me into more orgasms than I can stand. It’s difficult to do ordinarily, but bound like this there’s no way for me to wriggle away from your stimulation, no way for me to prevent the assault of pleasure. 

Whatever you choose to do to my body, my mind ends up well and truly fucked. My thoughts spill out of my vagina with the rest of my arousal and drip onto the carpet. My sense of self is all but dissolved - all that is left of me is this moment and the sensations between us. I am the spark of arousal, the drag of skin against skin, the pressure and the pain. I am blissfully bewitched, and it will be a while before I come back into myself. 

As I gradually float back to reality, you carefully untie the knots you so skillfully made. You stretch out each limb, rubbing sensation back into them. I’m having trouble keeping myself on the chair without the ropes' support, so you wrap your arms around me for the last few knots.

In that moment, our roles reverse. You ask what I need, and listen carefully. Maybe I need to be held, to drink water or tea, or to take a bath. I might curl up or stretch out or walk around. You offer suggestions and support, and care for me tenderly, but in this, in the afterwards, I decide the how and when and where.

Power passes between us freely, as we hand each other choices, slowly settling back into our familiar equilibrium. We talk and we trust, we laugh and apologize. We trade reassurances and suggestions, and plan for next time. I may not know exactly how it will happen, but the one thing I'm certain of is that there will _definitely_ be a next time.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually know that much about shibari so please let me know if I described something inaccurate or unsafe.


End file.
